It's a Dog's Life

It was one of dose tings which are really nobody's fault. It was not the driver's fault, and it was not Dugger's. He was having a friendly chat with his pal on the sidewalk; his pal ran across the road; he ran after him; and the car came round the corner and hit him. It must have been going pretty slow, or he should have been killed. As it was, he just had the breath knocked out of him.

He wasn't taking much interest in things for awhile, but when he did he found that he was the center of a group of three—the driver, a small boy, and the small boy's babysitter.

The small boy was very well-dressed, and looked delicate. He was crying.

'Poor doggie,' he said, 'poor doggie.'

'It wasn't my fault,' said the driver respectfully.
'He run out into the road before I seen him.'

'Oh, he's not dead,' said the small boy. 'He barked.'

'He growled,' said the babysitter. 'Come away, Peter. He might bite you.'

Women are trying sometimes. It is almost as if they deliberately misunderstood.

'I won't come away. I'm going to take him home with me and send for the doctor to come and see him. He's going to be my dog.'

This sounded all right to Dugger. He was growing tired of the dull life with me and the Hellcat.

The babysitter, a very unpleasant woman, had to make objections.

'Peter! You can't take him home, a great, rough, fierce, common dog! What would your mother say? Besides, he probably belongs to someone because of that collar and license tag around his neck'

'I'm going to take him home,' repeated the child, with a determination which Dugger heartily admired, 'and he's going to be my dog. I shall call him Fido.'

There's always a catch in these good things. Fido is a name Digger particularly detested. All dogs do. There was a dog called that that I knew once, and he used to get awfully sick when we shouted it out after him in the street. No doubt there have been respectable dogs called Fido, but to my mind it is a name like Aubrey or Clarence. You may be able to live it down, but you start handicapped.

'If you wait,Peter, your father will buy you a beautiful, lovely dog… a shitzo or a pomeranian.'
'I don't want a beautiful, lovely dog. I want this dog.'
If I had not intervened at this point, Dugger would have ended up in a mansion in Waverly, where there are no street numbers and having buttered scones and tea. I got the driver's name and number and told him I would contact him if there were any serious injuries. I told Peter that he could come and visit Dugger anytime he wanted on Wisteria Lane.
When we got home, I tole da Hellcat da story and she was so glad that Dugger was allright that she gave him a big bone that she was saving to make soup. Dugger was happy to be back home.